The Sulk
by MorbidDramaMaker
Summary: Hermione finds someone sulking in the middle of the holiday party and she will not stand for it. Companion to Come the Ages. Tom/Hermione


**The Sulk**

 **I purchased a new computer and started sifting through old prompts and drafts. This is something I started in 2016/17 that I rediscovered. I had no outline, which is unusual, so I just added another page and expanded it a bit. It's a companion to Come the Ages, short and sweet. Please enjoy!**

 **-XXX-**

He lingered the outskirts of the crowd, tugging at the collar of his dress robes. Thomas Riddle glowered as his coworkers passed. Most eyes passed over him without pause – despite his status, good looks, and charm Riddle did not stand out unless he wished to. And tonight he did not particularly wish to make himself known.

"Are you sulking?"

The bushy-haired terror was suddenly at his elbow, leaning against the wall beside him. Pushing hair that was streaked with gray behind her ears, she lifted one brow, though she stared out at the floor rather than looking at him. Like him she was in dress robes, though hers were a deep gold against his navy.

Tom grunted in response. Her lips twitched in something akin to amusement.

"You found me."

"You were not exactly hiding."

It was a fair point, Tom thought. He wasn't really hiding. He swirled his glass, staring down at the bronze contents. "What are you doing here?"

Hermione frowned. "I was invited. Same as you."

The tempo of the music shifted, becoming more upbeat. The people on the dance floor crowed, stepping up the pace, bodies flung into a faster dance. For several minutes Tom and Hermione watched. He could tell that she wanted to join them by the way her feet shuffled. Maybe he would ask her. Later. Once he'd figured out what she wanted.

"Well, wife-of-mine," Tom sighed. "What is it you're after here?"

"Who says I'm after anything?" Hermione heard her own shrillness and winced. "Can't your own spouse keep you company?"

He took a sip from his drink, glowering into the glass. "No."

"Well, I'm here. Sorry." Hermione blinked. "No, scratch that. I'm not sorry. Stop your lurking and join the rest of the party."

Tom didn't answer. The Hogwarts staff holiday party was always a bit of a bore. This year was no different, but it was made worse by Dumbledore's attempt to spice things up by hiring a proper band to serenade the group. Slughorn had been placed in charged of refreshments and everything was definitely suited to his taste – lots of ginger, rich sauces, red wines. He thought his days of charming the old potions master might have been over, but alas. With hope Slughorn might retire within the next year….

"What's wrong?" she sighed again, setting down her punch on the table beside them. "This isn't like you. You're being a bit of a git, and I don't even know why."

"You know I hate parties."

She snorted. "You could have fooled me. Most years you are mingling and talking people up like mad. Tonight you look like one wrong word from the wrong person an they'd end up looking like the rear of a mandrake."

Exasperated, he glared at her. "Don't you have anything better to do, witch, than pester me?"

"Not really, no."

Tom rubbed the bridge of his nose. His wife was headstrong – it is part of the reason why he loved her, that determination and drive – but it was far more amusing when it was directed towards other people, such as the Counsel for the Rights of Magical Beings or the head healer of the Department of Fungi at St. Mungo's. Not towards him.

She was watching Flitwick sway with McGonagall in the middle of the dance floor, marveling at his lightness of foot, when Tom's hand brushed hers. Hermione looked down, surprised, then met his serious gaze. Even after all these years, his nearly black eyes made her stomach do funny things – though thankfully, not in the same way as at first.

"Dumbledore is going to announce the new deputy headmaster or mistress," he said quietly. "I'm afraid that I might lose out to one of the more senior staff members. McGonagall has been here five years longer than me and she's his favorite. Head of Gryffindor and all."

Hermione hadn't even known he'd been considering applying for the position. Guiltily, she realized that naturally he would – he was more ambitious than even her. Of course he wouldn't be settled with just being a professor. She squeezed his hand.

"When will you know?" she asked quietly.

He shrugged. Even that was elegant. Typical. "He said sometime around the holidays. There was, in his words 'much to consider.'" Tom rolled his eyes thickly.

His wife bit back a chuckle. "Whatever happens, it'll be alright. Head of Slytherin is coming up soon, isn't it? As is ministry liaison? You're oily enough for both of those."

Tom scowled. But he tapped the tip of her nose with one finger and she knew she was forgiven for her small joke. Head of Slytherin and ministry liaison were all good and well but they were by no means a direct path towards Headmaster. If Tom did not get chosen as deputy he would have to wait until Dumbledore retired and hope McGonagall would pick him as her deputy – something that was highly unlikely. They'd overlapped each other in school and McGonagall had certainly not been a member of the Tom Riddle Fan Club. Things had improved once they were coworkers, but that essentially meant that they were civil and only occasionally send death glares toward the other behind Dumbledore's back.

"We'll see," he said softly before kissing her temple. "Now, this music is ghastly, and I would not normally insult you by asking for a dance. But as this is a party and we must keep up appearance as a loving couple –"

He was stopped when her elbow sharply made contact with his ribs. This was, naturally, hidden by their cloaks.

Hermione smiled up at him innocently. The music was transitioning to a slower tune. "This one seems like a decent one. Shall we?"

Pursed lips fought between a grimace and a smile. Eventually, he settled for the smile as he led his wife out to the dance floor.

Years ago he would have never pictured this – marriage, his dream job, living a relatively mundane and settled life. The plan had been so very different. He still had all of the artifacts tucked away. The cup, the locket, the diadem, all safe and hidden. But it had been ages since he'd met with his followers – something he was not planning on changing anytime soon. One horcrux was, he thought, perhaps enough. He wondered sometimes if she knew that part. It seemed like she knew an awful lot. With time Tom hoped she might enlighten him as to what her past – his future – had been. It seemed that after a quarter century of marriage and a relative level of trust might have also granted him this knowledge, however, Tom could be patient. All in good time.

Occasionally he longed to make her tell him all of it. To delve into something deeper than flashes of memory. Hermione had long ensured that all knowledge was locked up tight, only divulging small inconsequential bits and pieces as they came up. It was enough to drive him mad. If she had been anyone else he would have pulled it from her. Anyone else. As time had gone on, however, he'd come to acknowledge that it was far better to have her on his side as his loving and clever wife, rather than the shell-creature she'd been turning into before.

Yes, he thought as he held her against him in the middle of the dance floor. These twenty-five years had been excellently handled. It was not part of the original plan. But plans changed, and he'd never figured a Hermione Granger in his plan. Perhaps things had even changed for the better.

She looked up at him, her eyes bright against the confetti and glimmer of the party's décor. Though silver streaked both their hair he still saw the fierce witch he'd run into at the bookstore. Someone who was pretty close to perfect for him. For his plans.

Hermione obviously agreed. She leaned up, inhaling as she nestled against his neck. He pressed another quick kiss on the crown of her skull and together they danced on.

 **-XXX-**

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